


the senator's son

by cracktheglasses (cormallen)



Series: viande rouge [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: F/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-13 10:16:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16890663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cormallen/pseuds/cracktheglasses
Summary: 2017 tumblr prompt fic - Viande Rouge!Kylo meets Hannibal for @saltandlimes





	the senator's son

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saltandlimes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltandlimes/gifts).



Senator Leia Organa is not a frequent guest at Hannibal’s dinners; she’s a busy woman, hands always full, sponsoring the protections bill, support for the electric workers’ strike, a rumored presidential run. Alana is happy to see her there, even if it’s rarely, has been a fan since Organa was first elected mayor, has given to her campaigns, contributed materials to her public health initiative.

Alana is more hostess than guest tonight, and her Marc Jacobs dress, dark purple polka dot with a rich burgundy lining, echoes Hannibal’s tie, a Balthus knot spread against his collar. The senator is in blue, a sharp geometric neckline, a matching coat she sheds at the door. Her son sweeps it up from her before the approaching valet can.

They make an interesting picture together, the Organas. The senator, classically, easily attractive, professionally made up, tiny, yet immensely commanding, and her almost awkwardly tall son, the senator’s coat draped over a thick arm, towering over her and Alana both as she says hello.

Compelling face, but a boring suit, Alana decides, looking up at the narrow black tie bisecting the white starched chest, the slim black lapels. Ben, the senator gestures, and he extends a heavy, too-warm hand.

A pleasure, he says, she says. Nice to meet you. A pleasure.

He is good to his mother. Too good, for most of the evening; he’s too old for party attendance to be mandatory punishment, but Alana can’t help but think he’s making up for something as he ensures there’s a full drink in the senator’s hand, as he is pulling out her chair at the table. Softly reminding her she shouldn’t be eating the meat she’s allowed on her plate, gently invoking doctor’s orders. Let me get you some more of these wonderful-looking aubergine roulettes, he says, the asparagus, the roasted squash. Look, I won’t have any, either, he says, and Organa laughs, pushes her plate towards him, a swap: don’t let’s permit this wonderful meal our host has prepared go to waste.

Hannibal loves watching people enjoy his food; even as dish after dish he hasn’t personally prepared is served, Alana knows how much time he’s spent selecting and supervising the menu. His gaze lingers on Ben as he accepts the loin with its bloody drizzle of pomegranate reduction, though she admits hers does as well; he looks like an overgrown beast, and seeing him cut delicately into the rosy meat, and bring it to his dark pink mouth, his sharp, crowded teeth, slowly, almost daintily, is a strange bit of cognitive dissonance. Ben’s eyelids flutter, fall closed. He bites. Chews. Swallows.

She gets caught up chatting with the Vice Chair of the Symphony Board, and doesn’t talk to the senator’s son again for most of the evening, but she catches him gesticulating at Hannibal, rippling hands on the edge of her peripheral vision conjuring some design in the air, lopsided mouth caught in an eager grin. Hannibal’s eyes, crinkled at the corners, the edges of his lips lifting up.

What did you talk about, she asks him, much, much later, as he’s undoing the zipper on the back of her dress, sliding it down her legs, plucking carefully at the hooks of her brassiere.

Bowhunting, Hannibal says, the hooks coming apart in his sure grip.


End file.
